


For Play

by caloriebomb



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Belly Kink, Belly Rubs, Chubby Dean, Curtain Fic, F/M, Stuffing, Weight Gain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-11
Updated: 2014-12-11
Packaged: 2018-03-01 01:31:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2754566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caloriebomb/pseuds/caloriebomb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a long time, Dean had the same views on food that he did on sex: it was one of the best things in the world, when he could get it. Not that he'd ever been really deprived of either, but his lifestyle didn't allow for a lot of... lingering. It was wham, bam, thank you ma'am, no long candlelit dinners, no time to just kick back and enjoy a burger slowly. It was all about shoving it in whenever you found a moment.</p><p>Now, though, all of a sudden, both sex and food had become something to take time over. Lisa was adamant about things like foreplay, snuggling, and family dinners. Especially family dinners</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Play

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for a meme, for purplegertie's prompt: chubby!Dean, kink discovery.
> 
> I just want something when Dean is still pretty skinny, like the size he is on the show, and he first discovers how much he enjoys stuffing himself and gaining weight.

 

For a long time, Dean had the same views on food that he did on sex: it was one of the best things in the world, when he could get it. Not that he'd ever been really deprived of either, but his lifestyle didn't allow for a lot of... lingering. It was wham, bam, thank you ma'am, no long candlelit dinners, no time to just kick back and enjoy a burger slowly. It was all about shoving it in whenever you found a moment.

Now, though, all of a sudden, both sex and food had become something to take time over. Lisa was adamant about things like foreplay, snuggling, and family dinners. Especially family dinners. 

“You sure Sam can't come more often?” she said wistfully, watching from the window as Sam's taillights faded down the dark street.

“Honey, twice a week is already a hell of a lot of time for a grown-man to spend getting fed by his brother's girlfriend,” Dean said. “No offense.”

“Well,” she sighed, and turned back towards the table, “I sure love having him.”

“You and me both,” Dean said, and meant it with all his heart. Sam had only been back about six months, and Dean was still reeling from the fact that he got to have this: his brother in one piece, a nice house, a great kid, and the sexiest, smartest, funniest woman he'd ever met in his life. He'd actually pinched himself once or twice, and grinned like a loon when his fingernails left painful red crescents in his pale skin. 

“Will you finish off these potatoes?” Lisa said, holding up the glass casserole dish. “It'd be a waste to throw them out, but pointless to save them.”

“I can do that,” Dean said, sitting back down and taking the spoon she offered him. He thunked a heavy pat of softened butter into the couple mouthfuls of mashed potato and swirled it around.

“There's already like a stick of butter in those,” Lisa said, eyeing him with amusement. “Am I watching the decline of the great Dean Winchester's abs?”

Dean patted his flat stomach. “What, you think a little butter can defeat this body?”

Lisa leaned down to kiss his cheek, and pulled away slowly, her hand trailing down his face. He grinned at her and shoved a bite of potato into his mouth. The truth was, he was already full from the mound of mashed potatoes he'd eaten for dinner, not to mention the pot roast, the creamed corn, and the slice of pie he'd polished off. It felt so nice, though, to sit here watching Lisa move around their dining room, disappearing into the kitchen with the empty dishes, humming to herself a little. Felt nice to take his time. 

He sucked the last spoonful of mashed potato from the spoon, sat back with a contented sigh. He'd never really noticed before how good it felt to be full. He'd always been moving, always on-the-go, never enough time to really appreciate the comfortable feeling of a full stomach, how safe it felt. 

It felt something other than safe, too. 

He'd overdone it on ice cream the week before, and noticed that the fullness in his stomach seemed to sit directly on top of his dick – as if there were some kind of nerve system that sent shockwaves down his groin, like “full” translated to “horny.” Usually he loved hanging around in the living room, watching the game on mute and chatting with Ben, but that night he couldn't wait to get the kid to sleep so he could have his way with Lisa.

And what a way it was. Something about the fullness and the pressure and the girl-on-top just did it for him. It hadn't occurred to him to try to reclaim that feeling, figured it was a one-off, but now, pleasantly full, he felt that weird tingle again, belly to balls. 

He carried the empty casserole dish into the kitchen and starting poking idly at the pie that was still sitting uncovered on the counter, oozing delicious red berry filling.

“We have any more of that ice cream?” he said.

“Let's see,” Lisa said. “If you were ice cream, where would you be?”

“All right, all right,” he said, opening the freezer, rolling his eyes and grinning at the same time. She'd been trying to domesticate him, to varying degrees of success – he still had the bad habit of asking where things were all the time, instead of giving it a second's thought and figuring it out on his own. He could see how that might be annoying. Still half a tub of good old vanilla bean. 

He cut himself a generous slice of pie and added a few scoops of ice cream, then sat down again, this time at the kitchen table. Usually he and Lisa alternated clean-up/cooking nights, but he'd cooked and cleaned the last time Sam came over, so she'd insisted on doing it all tonight. Not that he was complaining.

“I think this pie is even better cooled down,” he said. 

“Yeah?”

Dean offered her a forkful, and she shook her head. 

“I can get seconds on dessert somewhere else,” she said, and winked, slow and sensual.

Dean felt a hot rush of arousal originate somewhere between the pie and the potatoes. “I hear that place is open late,” he said. 

“That's the rumor,” she said.

“Mom?” Ben hollered from the living room. “I don't understand this stupid science homework!”

“You want me to --” Dean said, standing, but she waved him down.

“Finish your pie. I'll take care of the monster tonight.”

Dean laughed and speared himself a gooey forkful. “And I do appreciate it.”

He slowly ate the rest, chasing the last crumbs with his finger while he listened to the comforting murmur of voices in the next room. He was – really pretty full. And it felt kind of fucking amazing.

He gave a speculative glance at the remaining pie, and his heart kicked up a notch for some reason at the idea of having more. It felt... wrong... and... gluttonous... and kinda... hot. Just this side of dirty. Which was crazy, because it was just pie. But the idea of having more even though he didn't need it, and probably shouldn't, was almost getting him hard. 

“You animal,” he chuckled, and served himself another slice. Added more ice cream. Was about halfway through when Lisa came back into the room.

“You're eating that awful slow,” she commented, then glanced towards the counter and groaned. “Babe, you left the ice cream out again. Yuck, it's all melted. It's going to freeze weird and be tough and grainy. I hate you.”

“Shit,” Dean said, “sorry. Here, hand it over. There's not much left.”

“You're going to eat half-melted ice cream?” she said skeptically.

“If you give me a little more of that pie I'll have something to soak it up with,” he said, and there it was again, that quickened heart-rate, the feeling of doing something that he shouldn't. She didn't know this was his second piece. Third, actually, if you counted the one he'd had earlier. And the secrecy of that was fucking hot.

With mock-petulance, Lisa served him a wedge, and Dean poured the gloppy ice cream over top. “See?” he said. “All fixed.”

“That's my man,” she said. “So handy around the house.”

“I'll show you handy,” Dean said.

“Oooh, I hope you will.”

He did. He was fuller than he'd been in a long, long time, and as she rode him, he dug his hands into her hips and grabbed her tits and felt the sloshing in his stomach send waves of intense pleasure to his dick. He finished with a roar, and Lisa had to clap her hand over his mouth and sink down onto his chest, giggling uncontrollably, panting with the aftermath of her own silent orgasm.

“You're gonna wake Ben,” she said, “shhhh, baby, shhh!”

“I fucking love you,” he groaned.

She gave him a wet, messy, final kiss. “I love you too.”

 

Lisa was into family breakfasts, as well as dinners. Really all that meant was they gathered around the table every morning and had cereal, or sometimes eggs and toast. Today it was cereal, and Dean wolfed down his usual bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios before hesitating, hand on the box. The sense-memory of last night still thudded through him. He shouldn't get himself all worked up when he knew there was no chance of a quickie before they all went their separate ways. But he was craving that feeling. So he poured himself another bowl and slurped it up before he could think too hard about it. Not like cereal was that filling. He didn't feel much different after the second bowl, to his disappointment, but he did feel the beginning of what he'd started calling “the tingle,” in his head. 

So just as an experiment – just to see what would happen – Dean cruised by a MacDonald's drive through on his way to the construction site, and got a couple Egg Mcmuffins. He squirted them liberally with ketchup, and ate them nice and slow as he drove to work. Now he was full, and fuckkkk it felt good. Shit. Glancing guiltily at the wrappers in the truck seat next to him, he pressed a palm on his dick to try to get it to calm down, but that didn't work – and no wonder, since he'd been trying to get it riled-up in the first place.

“I get it, buddy,” Dean said to Little Dean. “You like food. Don't we all. Now take it down a notch.”

But the feeling didn't subside until Dean's breakfast started wearing off around noon. He'd spent the whole morning mildly aroused, and everything reminded him of Lisa's body – the nails were nipples, the hard hats her tits, the metal beams her gorgeous long legs. Though he didn't think she'd find it too romantic if he tried to explain it like that. “You're like a busted building, honey.” No. 

The question was... lunch, or no lunch? He wasn't that hungry, and if he forewent lunch he knew he'd be free once and for all of his wannabe hard-on. 

On the other hand, if he ate lunch, he might have a little time at the end to lock himself in the boy's room and, ahem, work it out.

That seemed like the most reasonable solution.

“Eric,” he shouted to his supervisor. “Wanna split a pizza, man?”

“Sure,” Eric said. 

“I want in!” someone else shouted, and they ended up with four larges, all meat-lovers. 

The six of them hunkered down at a picnic table, and for a while there was just the sounds of chewing and the occasional, “More root beer?” “Yeah, thanks.”

Dean and Eric usually got a medium, three slices each, but after he'd had three slices Dean looked around and saw that the other men seemed to be winding down, their plates pushed away from them. There was still plenty of pizza. So he shrugged, and helped himself to another slice. Folded it in half and ate it pretty fast. He was full. He was definitely full. The guys would notice if he had another – he was the only one still eating, though there was twenty minutes left of their lunch hour. He only needed ten minutes to get himself off. So he had ten minutes left. 

Wonder how much pizza I could eat in ten minutes, Dean thought, then ducked his head sheepishly as if his friends could hear his thoughts.

They'd definitely notice if he had another. And for some fucking reason, that thought just thrilled him. Though they wouldn't judge him. He was a big dude; they all were. Maybe they wouldn't notice, after all. Only one way to find out. 

This piece – his fifth – went down in three minutes. Usually he took his time over a slice, especially since he had time these days, but it was kind of fun just cramming it in, chewing, swallowing, chewing, swallowing, never putting it back on his plate. He was half-hard by the time he'd finished, and no one had said anything. They were all just placidly sipping their soda, lost in their own thoughts while Dean made a pig of himself unnoticed.

So he took another slice.

“Hungry, Winchester?” Eric said, and Dean almost groaned at what that did to his cock. He'd wanted someone to comment, he realized. What the fuck was wrong with him?

“Skipped breakfast,” Dean said, wiping grease from the corner of his mouth. “Been waitin' all day for this.” He took another huge bite, trying not to show how full he was. He let out a discreet burp. “Scuse me.”

In the bathroom, he got himself off so fast, so hard, that his knees buckled and he had to sit on the toilet, gasping, ropes of come on one hand, and the other hand digging into his stomach. He could almost feel the food he'd consumed – could almost see it. 

The self-love session took the edge off, thank god, but the side-effects of his stuffing remained. He was sleepy for the rest of the day, distracted, weighed-down. He was glad when the time came to go home.

It was his night to cook, so he made a huge pile of pasta and grilled up some garlic bread to go with, then put a bunch of spinach in a bowl with bleu cheese and called it a salad. He served Lisa and Ben standing at the stove, and when they'd gone to sit in the dining room, he hastily speared a chunk of butter and put it in his bowl before the pasta, then mounded pasta so it nearly overflowed the bowl. Butter was filling, he figured, and heavy – it would get him to his goal faster.

It's okay to experiment sometimes, he told himself. Take a day for yourself. Nothing wrong with that.

“Pass the cheese?” he said, sitting at the table, and shook a blizzard over his plate. Slathered butter on the already-buttered garlic bread and pretended not to see Lisa noticing, though the very thought of it was getting him hot. He worked his way through the bowl of pasta and four pieces of garlic bread, then dished out seconds to him and Ben. He filled his second plate just as high as the first plate. Was free with the butter. Made a pasta/garlic bread sandwich, to Ben's crowing amusement. 

“Someone was hungry,” Lisa said, and for the second time that day Dean nearly lost the mouthful he was chewing. He fucking loved that she'd noticed. Why? Why was he thrilled that the woman he loved thought he was a glutton?

“Skipped lunch,” he said. Recycling the lie.

“Well, there's still tons of pie,” she said.

“Oh, I'm well aware,” he told her.

Ben passed on dessert – “the only kid in the world who'd rather watch Animal Planet than eat dessert,” Dean said fondly – and Lisa had some paperwork to finish up for the studio, so once again Dean was left in the kitchen to eat his pie alone. He was already so full, so turned-on. He worked his way through two big pieces and had to stop, a little breathless, inwardly laughing at himself. Two bowls of pasta and two pieces of pie was hardly an olympic eating event, he thought. But here he was, full to the gills, rubbing his stomach and burping behind his hand. 

He wandered up to the bedroom after that, stripped to his boxers and brushed his teeth while Lisa showered. She came out all slippery and warm and sweeter even than pie. She dropped her towel, so easy in her body, and put one arm around his neck and the other – on his stomach.

“How was the pie?” she murmured, and bit his ear. His legs turned to jello.

“Not as good as you,” he said. “Ugh, Lisa, what you do to me...” He was already fully hard.

“People say the sex goes downhill after a year,” she said, and shoved him towards the bed. “I feel like we're just getting started.”

“Me too,” said Dean. “Me too.”

 

The one-day experiment turned into a two-day experiment turned into a week, turned into two. Two week of constant eating, of unheard-of peaks of arousal, of the best sex of his life. 

He kept it under-wraps at home – would have breakfast with Lisa and Ben, maybe eat a teeny bit more than usual, an extra piece of toast, a bagel with his cereal, but nothing too obvious, nothing to call attention to itself.

Then he'd hit a drive-through on his way to work. MacDonald's, usually, since it was most convenient, but he went out of his way a few times a week to get a Carl's Jr. breakfast burger or a box of donuts. 

Lunch he usually went in on pizza, but started ordering a meatball sub, too, extra cheese plus pepperoni. He thought, foolishly, that this made it look like he was eating less than he was – he'd eat the sub fast, then have a couple leisurely slices of pizza. Seemed less conspicuous than eating six slices of pizza every day. 

“That woman of yours must be working you hard,” his friend Rich said about sixteen days after he'd started the whole thing.

“Huh?” Dean said. He was focused on his pizza. 

“Your appetite's been, uh, impressive, lately,” Rich said, and the rest of the guys laughed.

“Yeah,” Dean said, grinning, “don't know why, I've just been hungry as hell.”

“Lisa pregnant?” Al wanted to know. “I've heard about... sympathy cravings.”

“Nah,” Dean said. Actually she had her period at the moment. Not that that had stopped them last night. 

“Maybe you're pregnant,” someone suggested, and Dean laughed along with the rest of them. This conversation was turning him the fuck on.

He and Sam had a “man date” planned for later that night, and Dean showed up at the bar an hour early so he could pound a basket of nachos before Sam arrived. He slathered them in sour cream and ate them with one eye on the clock, licking grease off his lips.

By the time Sam arrived, his table was clean except for a beer.

“Hey, man,” Sam said, and to the waitress, “I'll have whatever he's drinking.”

“How was class?” Dean said. Sam taught self-defense full-time.

“Good,” Sam said, half-smiling, secretive. “Real good.”

“Sammy,” Dean said. “Is there something you're not telling me?”

“I met someone,” Sam blurted out, then blushed scarlet. “Her name's Kendall. She's your height. She's from South Carolina and has this amazing southern accent, and she's a PhD student in mythology at the U. We've been dating for a month. I think it's getting serious. I wanted you to know.”

“That's fucking awesome, Sam,” Dean said, beaming. “Way to go! Tell you what, dinner's on me tonight, okay? You wanna start with some buffalo wings? Mozarella sticks? Hell, let's get both. We're celebrating!”

Sam, dazed by his own happy news, acquiesced without comment, and didn't seem to notice when Dean ate most of the appetizers by himself. On top of those nachos, he was already pretty full, rocking unobtrusively on the edge of the booth. How far did he want to go, with Sam right here?

“Double bacon cheeseburger,” he said. “Onion rings. Side of mayo. Thanks, darlin'.”

“Chicken club,” Sam said absently, “side salad with balsamic. And she was the first person in her family to go to college, can you believe it?”

“Like you,” Dean said, and Sam seemed startled, like this hadn't occurred to him. 

“But I didn't finish,” he said. 

“Wasn't your fault. Sounds like you guys have a lot in common, man. When do I get to meet the lucky lady?”

“Um, next week, if you want,” Sam said. “She offered to have you over for dinner, and Lisa and Ben too. She's the most unbelievable cook. You'll flip out. Hey, you gonna have another beer? I'm gonna have another beer.”

Dean nodded, grinning. Damn, he loved seeing Sam happy. And damn, he loved a woman who could cook. “I can't speak for Lisa and Ben, but you say the word, I'm there,” he said. “Ah, here comes our food. Awesome. I'm starving, man.”

“That's a hell of a lot of mayo,” Sam said.

“I'll say.” Dean examined his plate with satisfaction. The mayonnaise was in a little bowl – had to be half a cup, at least. And he was gonna use it all. He dunked an onion ring in like a spoon, cackling at Sam's disgust.

“At least you're getting exercise at work,” Sam said, “if you're gonna eat like that.”

“This burger is a work of art,” Dean said around a thick mouthful. God, he loved eating. Loved the crisp edges of the grilled bun, the greasy salt of the cheese, the juicy meat, the bacon... He took another huge bite. Loved the feeling of working around a too-big mouthful, ripping off another bite before he'd fully swallowed the first. Burger in one hand, onion ring in the other. Pause to chug some beer. Burp. Bite. Burp. 

This was the fucking life.

He finished his plate at the same time as Sam, and leaned back, trying to conceal how packed-in he was. “That was excellent,” he said, patting his belly. He wished he could pop the button on his jeans. “You down for some dessert?”

“You're kidding me,” Sam said. “You're still hungry?”

“Always,” Dean said. Got a slice of cherry cheesecake, ate it nice and slow while he and Sam killed another beer, talking about Kendall, talking about Lisa. Dean kept sucking in air and letting it out in a burpy hiss, trying to relieve the pressure in his stomach at the same time he was reveling in it. 

“So you'll come next week?” Sam said anxiously, giving him a farewell hug. “I'm thinking Tuesday.”

“No way,” Dean said, “you come to our house Tuesday. Lisa will cry if you don't show up. She's making your favorite mac and cheese, dude.”

“Okay, Wednesday,” Sam said, dimpling. “I'm not about to miss that mac and cheese.”

“You tell your girl I can't wait to meet her,” Dean said. “Tell her I hope she lives up to her reputation in the kitchen.”

“Oh, she will,” Sam said.

Dean and Lisa didn't fuck that night; both of them more in the mood to just wrap their arms around each other and go to sleep.

“You smell like a bar,” Lisa murmured sleepily. “You smell like... mmm.... beer and french fries.”

“I didn't have french fries.”

“What'd you have?”

“Burger and onion rings,” he said. 

“That all?” She trailed a hand down his bare chest and spread a palm out over his admittedly bloated belly. It stuck up a little over his boxers and looked decidedly rounder, a little shiny, stuffed-full.

“And some nachos,” he said.

“That all?”

“Cheesecake.”

“You piggy,” she said, snuggling close. He thrilled at the thought that she didn't know about the wings or the cheese sticks. “You've put on a little weight, I think. Not so skinny around the edges these days.”

“You calling me fat?”

“I'm calling you mine,” she said, and kissed him long and slow, her hand still resting on his belly.

 

She wasn't the only one who noticed.

“Dude,” Sam said, in almost admiring tones. “You're not seriously putting butter on that mac and cheese?”

Dean paused, looked at his butter-laden knife and his giant plate of pasta, and made a face. “Uh, yeah? Obviously?”

“He's like a butter spokesperson lately,” Lisa said. “My theory is he's gearing up for hibernation.”

“It's May,” Dean said around a cheesy, buttery mouthful. “And what can I say, it's the food of the gods.”

“It clogs your heart up,” Ben said.

“That's true,” Dean said. “Don't follow my example, kid.” There was no chance of that. Ben's favorite food was freaking raw broccoli. 

“At least have some peas with those carbs,” Lisa said. “For me?”

“Yuck. Nasty little green round things. No thanks.”

“What if I do this?” She held up a butterknife and cut a generous chunk. 

“Now you're talking,” he said, and she buttered his peas with a fondly exasperated expression. Sam watched, eyebrows raised, saying nothing.

He watched as Dean ate three chocolate chip cookies, too. Watched him drink a couple cans of Coke. Watched him finish off Ben's plate of macaroni and cheese, then Lisa's too. 

Watched Dean eat three more cookies standing over the sink, furtive, thinking no one was watching him. Crumbs raining down on his shirt.

“Dude,” Sam said, and Dean jumped.

“Whoa, Sam,” he said, wiping his mouth. “Warn a guy.”

“I'm warning you to lay off the cookies,” Sam said. “That magical metabolism of yours isn't gonna last forever, man.”

“Yeah, probably not,” Dean said, rueful, but also a little excited. He'd been stuffing himself for almost three weeks, now, and had so far managed to put off thinking about the consequences, in favor of appreciating the benefits. He'd been noticing though that his jeans were feeling a little tight, even when he woke up empty in the mornings. He'd let his belt out a notch or two but it wasn't really helping. “It's just nice to have all this home cooking, you know? Not to mention a home.”

Sam's face went soft. “Yeah, I know.”

Dean looked at the half-eaten cookie in his hand, let out a careless burp and took a bite. “Not like I got anything to stay in shape for. Except Lisa.”

“Who's a freaking yoga instructor, if you needed reminding.”

“Anyway,” Dean said, and shoved the last bite of cookie in his mouth, “thanks for your concern. Not.”

“All right, all right,” he backed up, hands out in a keep-the-peace gesture. “That better be your last cookie, though.”

Just to spite him, Dean grabbed another and stuffed the whole thing in his mouth.

“Shouldn't'a said anything,” Sam said long-sufferingly.

“Damn right,” Dean sprayed, crumbs everywhere.

 

Sam's girlfriend Kendall was tall, and blond, and stacked, and curvy as hell.

“You don't look a thing like Sam,” said said in her sweet accent. “Why'd I have to end up with the ugly one, huh?”

“No such thing as an ugly Winchester,” Lisa said, giving Kendall a nice-to-meet-you hug. “What smells so good?”

“Brisket, two kinds of potatoes, baked beans and fried okra,” Kendall said, proud. “Sam told me Dean's a big eater. Sure doesn't look it, though. Need to feed you up.”

Oh god, Dean thought. He was gonna pop a boner for his little brother's new girlfriend. No. No. Hairy old lady pussy. Unwashed feet. Ghouls. 

Better.

“Well, sit down, sit down, it's all ready to go.”

Dean didn't have to be told twice. Sam's apartment was small but well-designed, and they ate in the kitchen, Dean's knee knocking Lisa's next to him. The table was laden down with dishes, all of which smelled incredible, and Kendall plonked the butter dish right next to Dean's elbow and whipped the towel off a plate of steaming homemade biscuits.

It felt like Thanksgiving, everyone reaching over everyone else, passing around platters of succulent beef and cheese-laden potatoes, rich gravy and baked beans with almost as much bacon as beans. 

“Sam,” Dean said, after the first bite of brisket, “marry her.”

“What makes you think I'd say yes?” Kendall shot back, but Dean noticed that she and Sam were holding hands beneath the table. 

Dean took it slow but steady, drinking beer, laughing, an arm slung around the back of Lisa's chair as he piled beef and potatoes onto his fork, or dunked his biscuit in the beans. The biscuits were god-sent – fluffy yet dense, still steaming when you split them, and Dean thought he'd finally found butter's one true soulmate. He wasn't sparing with the butter, of course, slathering it on in a thick yellow layer and watching as it melted against the perfectly crannied biscuits. 

Everyone else was eating a lot, too, but eventually they wound down, leaning back in their cheers with their beers and talking about university bureaucracy while Dean helped himself to another pile of smashed cheddar potatoes and brisket. He took another biscuit – his fifth – and munched it happily, half-listening to their conversation, but mostly just enjoying the sight of Sam with a girl he really liked. 

Christ, he was getting full. His belt buckle was digging into him, and there was a dull pain starting up under his ribs. It throbbed in time with his dick. He added some more beans to his plate and took another biscuit to sop them up, licked the butter that ran down his hand and to his wrist. 

“And here I was worried about leftovers,” Kendall said, and he looked up to see her eyes were on him, amused. 

“I don't like worrying pretty women,” Dean said, and Sam groaned, burying his face in his hands.

“He saves all his good lines for other people's girlfriends,” Lisa said, squeezing his knee. “Baby, are you going to eat anything green? You haven't touched the okra.”

“Got other things on my mind,” he said, jabbing his fork meaningfully at his last mouthful of brisket, even as Lisa reached for his plate to serve him a large helping of fried okra. He nibbled a piece tentatively, and his eyes widened. “This is good!”

“It's deep fried,” Sam said, “what do you expect?”

“Save some room for dessert,” Kendall said. “Nothing fancy, just apple pie.”

“Just pie,” Dean scoffed, shoving in another mouthful of okra and fidgeting a little in his chair, both from discomfort and arousal. He blew out a hard breath, and hiccuped a little, to his embarrassment. Ouch, shit, hiccuping was not fun when you were this full. He finished the okra and sat back in his chair, stifling a burp with the back of his hand. If he looked closely, he could see his full stomach beneath his shirt, an ever-so-slight convexity that he patted carefully as Sam began clearing the table and passing out dessert plates.

“First, whiskey,” Kendall said, and poured them each a glass over ice. Dean drank his down gladly, hoping it would settle his stomach a little, and nodded when Kendall gestured towards his glass. He sipped the second one a little slower, already feeling better. On top of the beer, he was just the right side of tipsy, everything – including his stomach – a little numb. 

Which, thank god, because the apple pie was several luscious inches high, with a perfect flaky crust and a densely sugared interior, and Kendall served it with ice cream and a thick, homemade caramel sauce that Dean could've eating with a spoon. 

“Don't tell me you're going to have another piece,” Sam said, when Dean let out a long, low belch and reached towards the pie tin again. 

“Wasn't gonna tell you anything,” Dean said. “Pass me that caramel.”

Again, he was the only one left eating, as the others sipped their whiskey and chatted. He reached down and tried ineffectually to tug his pants up a little, make some room, but the gesture was in vain. They weren't budging. He hiccuped again, wincing, and determinedly slid a huge bite onto his fork. As he chewed, he felt Lisa's hand come up and rub his back. Her touch, combined with the enormous pressure in his belt area, was almost too much to handle, and he attacked the last few bites of pie with gusto, trying to distract himself.

“Let me wrap the rest of this pie up for you,” Kendall said, and over Lisa's protests, “No, please, I insist.”

“Next time, you have to come to our house,” Lisa made her promise, and Kendall beamed. 

“I like her, Sammy,” Dean said in his ear when they hugged goodbye.

“Her, or her cooking?”

“All of it. Everything. A hundred percent.”

Sam clapped him on the shoulder. “She likes you too, man. I can tell.”

Dean was quiet on the car ride home, concentrating on trying not to hiccup anymore, his hand tucked up under his t-shirt and lying flat across his stomach. Which didn't feel as flat as it had a few weeks ago, if he was honest with himself. Lisa prattled on about how much she liked Kendall, how glad she was that Sam had found somebody, how she was going to have to step up her game for their next family dinner because jesus could that woman cook or what?

“Yeah,” Dean said. “Pretty fucking impressive. Oof.”

“I've heard the way to a man's heart is his stomach,” she said, and reached over to pat Dean's. “You're not going to leave me for her, are you?”

“Depends on what other pies she knows how to make,” he said. He was breathing shallowly, and thought maybe he should've held off on that last piece. As if reading his thoughts, Lisa's belly-patting slowed into a slow rub, and he closed his eyes with how good it felt. She didn't say anything, but kept it up all the way home.

“You up for it?” she said, as he wriggled out of his painful jeans and stripped off his t-shirt.

“Hell yeah,” he said, “if you're gentle. Otherwise I'll explode.”

“I'll be gentle,” she said.

 

The next week, two important things happened.

One, Ben left to spend the three and a half months of summer with his grandmother, and two, Dean broke his arm on the job.

“Thank goodness Ben's not around,” Lisa said. “Elsewise I'd have two babies to take care of!”

“And thank god for worker's comp,” Dean said wearily, readjusting his sling and reaching for the remote. He was propped up on the couch with a few pillows. “Two months without work would mean a cancelled Netflix account, otherwise.”

“Oh, we'd find a way to keep you in rom-coms,” Lisa said. “I'd pick up an extra class or something. How's the arm?”

“Hurts a little,” Dean said, “but nothing I can't handle.”

“Well,” she said, leaning down to drop a kiss on his cheek, “don't hesitate to call the studio if you need anything.”

“Lis, it's just my arm,” he said. “You go work your bendy magic. I'm good here.”

“I'll pick up dinner on the way home,” she promised. “What sounds good?”

“Haven't had thai in a while,” Dean said. “Surprise me. Don't forget a couple appetizers, too, though. Those little fried rollup-things.”

“Got it,” Lisa said. “Love you, babe.”

Dean wasn't used to having the house by himself. Once Lisa had gone, it felt very empty, very quiet, and he pushed himself up from the couch and compulsively checked the wards painted on the door before heading into the kitchen for a movie snack. He stood in front of the fridge, idly running a hand over his stomach and wondering what to eat. He looked the same, he thought, but beneath his palm the feeling of his belly told a different story – he'd definitely gained a couple pounds in the past weeks of eating-frenzy. He could feel a softness that hadn't been there before; and he'd grown used to his belly bloating up after he stuffed himself, but these days it didn't seem to be going down. 

Plus, these jeans? Didn't feel as comfortable as he remembered. He kept trying to tug them up, re-situate them to get them to stop digging into him, but it was a losing battle.

“Okay,” Dean said to himself. “You had your fun. Time to ease up. Have a fucking carrot or something.”

But he was eyeing a big block of cheddar, and he knew there was an unopened bag of Doritos just begging for some sour cream and melted cheese. It was unnerving how quickly he'd picked up the habit of being full. He'd had breakfast less than an hour ago – two bowls of Cheerios and a bagel and peanut butter. Which he guessed wasn't actually all that much. It made sense he'd be getting hungry already.

Not that he was actually hungry, mind. He just... could really use something to eat, is all. He bit his lip and glanced down, but he couldn't really see his belly under the splint and sling strapped across his chest; and really, the change wasn't visible anyway. It was probably just his muscles softening up, he reasoned. 

“Right, Winchester,” he said. “No way are you gaining weight. That wouldn't make any sense. You haven't been shoveling food down your throat for three weeks, so why would you have gained weight?”

The thing is, it felt kind of nice, his softer belly. He could feel it under his shirt as he walked around now, could feel it gently brushing the soft cotton, especially after he'd eaten, and it felt... well, it felt good.

And Dean had had precious few things in his life that made him feel good.

Plus, he was alone in the house for the first time since he started this whole eating thing, and he may as well enjoy himself. 

So he got out the cheese and tore open the bag of Doritos with his teeth, and looked around for the cutting board and knife – although, shit, it was going to be hard to cut this one-handed. Hmm. 

His eyes, darting around the kitchen, settled on a mixing bowl that was sitting out on the counter to dry. He looked at the big block of cheese. He looked at the big bag of chips. He looked at the mixing bowl.

He was going to make the biggest bowl of nachos, ever. And he wasn't gonna hassle himself about it, either.

He dumped all the Doritos into the bowl, then put the block of cheese on top, and awkwardly one-handed it into the microwave. It would take a little while for that whole block to melt, he figured, and busied himself with looking in the fridge for extra toppings. Black olives, definitely. Sour cream, for sure. A little cream cheese, too? Why not.

By the time the microwave let out a merry ding, Dean was ready with the toppings. He wrestled the bowl out – his hand wrapped in a dishcloth against the heat – and dumped in the olives, the entire container of sour cream, and what was left of a package of cream cheese. Then he took the whole thing into the living room, salivating in anticipation. He settled the bowl on the coffee table, then went to fetch a huge stack of napkins – both because he knew he'd be messy, and because he had some plans for a little one-on-one with himself.

He turned on an old Batman movie on low, and dug in. The cheese had melted completely and dripped all throughout the bag of chips, and he was essentially attacking a giant, crunchy ball of cheddar, smothered in creamy white sour cream and cream cheese. He didn't even want to know how many calories were in this.

Actually... he did. He kind of fucking did want to know. And he'd find out as soon as he was done.

Halfway through, he sucked the grease off his fingers and leaned back a little to unbutton his jeans, then unzipped them, too, revealing the teal green boxers Lisa loved for some reason. Peering around the sling on his arm, he saw several inches of stomach poking out above his underwear, a little rounded roll of what was unmistakeably pudge. For some reason this just drove him to eat faster, chasing “the tingle,” that magic moment where pain became the most perfect pleasure.

“God,” he groaned, stuffing another dripping chip into his mouth. His sides had started to cramp a little, and he pulled the bowl onto his lap so he could lean back against the couch, relieve some of the pain in his crammed-full tummy. He was about three quarters of the way through, now, and taking shallow sips of air, so full he was almost lightheaded from lack of air. He belched hugely, and felt a little of the pain recede for a second, so he worked out another big burp and eased a handful of chips into his mouth. They were so fucking delicious. The crunch, the grease, the cream. And he was so, so fucking full. 

He found himself jerking his hips upward, his dick searching for friction, but the only thing his cock came in contact with was the hard bottom of the bowl on his lap. If he hadn't been so close to puking he might have laughed, because he was almost literally fucking a bowl of nachos. 

All told, it took him about forty minutes to eat the whole bowl, and when he was done he sat back, stupefied, swollen, his still-greasy fingers rubbing firm circles on his aching stomach and then working downward, jamming their way down his too-tight boxers and gripping his hard, leaking cock. He came almost immediately, and saw stars for long minutes afterwards.

He cleaned himself up, wadded up the napkins and through them in the empty, glistening mixing bowl, then rocked himself off the couch just enough to dig his phone out from his tight back pocket. He was panting, both from his orgasm, and from the fact that his stomach was so full it had diminished his lung capacity.

Too full to go to the kitchen to look at the wrappers, he looked up the ingredients one-by-one on his phone.

Doritos: 2016 calories  
Cheddar cheese: 1680  
Sour cream: About 800  
Cream cheese: 300

Total: 4796

Dean blew out a painful, cheesy breath. Jesus fucking christ. That was more than twice what a guy his size was supposed to eat in a day, never mind in one sitting.

He couldn't continue on like this or he was going to start putting on some serious poundage. This little belly was just going to grow, and grow, and grow, and his pecs would flab up and turn into little tits, and his thighs would start spreading, and –

“Fuck!” he said, to his dick. Which was getting hard again. How was that even possible? “You're perverted,” he told it, “you know that?”

But the only answer was the tortured rumble of his bloated stomach.

That night was the first time in a long while that Dean didn't reach for seconds. He sat at the kitchen table with Lisa, his still-cramping stomach, and a smorgasbord of Thai take-out, and it was all he could do to eat a painstaking spring roll and a plate of Pad Thai. He was still ungodly full from his insane nacho binge just a few hours earlier, and every bite reminded him of the bag of Doritos and block of cheese still barely-digested in his belly. His slinged arm was tucked against his middle, and he gently rubbed his gut below the table as Lisa frowned at his picked-over plate and said, “Don't have much of an appetite tonight, huh?”

“Guess not,” he said.

“You in a lot of pain?” she said. 

“Nah,” he said. “Barely hurts at all unless I move it.”

“How do you feel, otherwise? Tired? How's your back?”

“I'm fine, Lis,” he said, smiling a little at the sweet downturn of her lovely, worried mouth. 

“It's just, you never lose your appetite,” she said. “You sure you don't want some of this green curry?”

No, Dean absolutely did not want any green curry. But Lisa was looking at him with such attention, such care, wanting so badly to feed him, to get him full – not knowing he was already full to the brim, not knowing how much fucking food he'd packed away that afternoon, not knowing how the mere thought of letting her load his plate again was turning him on. 

“Just a little,” he said, sliding his plate over and suppressing a still-cheesy burp, and watched in a mixture of dismay and arousal as she heaped rice and curry onto his plate, a small mountain of the stuff, and added a spring roll to boot.

“And you may as well just finish this,” she said, peeking into the carton of Pad Thai. “It's not nearly enough to save.” 

“All right,” Dean said, shocked at himself, and she dumped the rest of the noodles onto his already-crowded plate. He scooted his chair closer to the table, feeling the bloat of his stomach pressing out into his broken arm, and began to eat, grimly determined. He shoveled in the Pad Thai first, let out a couple gentle, rolling belches that had Lisa screwing up her nose in mock-horror, then attacked the mound of curry and rice. He felt dazed with food, stuffed and heavy, the fork like a great weight at the end of his hand and his stomach beginning to make complaining, gassy noises, groaning loudly as he shoveled forkful after forkful of creamy curry down his gullet. He sipped hair, burped, kept going. And finally, his plate was clean.

“Ugh,” he said, unable to keep himself from moaning. He was uncomfortable in the extreme – all he wanted to do was lay down and let his stomach settle unencumbered. “I'm full,” he said. Understatement of the year. “Told you I was fine.”

Lisa's eyes were bright, and her forehead had relaxed out of its lines of concern. She reached over and took his good hand, lying limp and sweaty on the table where he'd dropped his fork. “More than fine,” she said.

He hiccuped. 

 

Ten weeks, the doctor had said, give or take. Ten weeks until Dean was cleared to work, and he had to admit, he didn't mind the forced vacation. Those first few days, he fell very quickly into a routine, and he found it revolved, perhaps inevitably, around food. He had never, in all of his life, given himself over to hedonism so entirely, and though every morning he woke up and told himself he had to stop, he didn't want to. He'd always been the type of person to console himself with pleasures of the flesh – sex, drinking, drugs sometimes, and of course food, but never had he fully relaxed into those pleasures simply because they were pleasurable. He'd always been trying to fill some hole, some lack in his life. But now? Now, he was happier than he'd ever been, and free for the first time to submerge himself in true luxury and self-gratification. It felt, in a word, amazing.

He'd wake up and cook an awkward, one-handed breakfast for him and Lisa, usually a simple meal of eggs and toast or oatmeal with dried fruit, and sometimes if they had time they'd fool around a little before her first yoga class, and he'd send her out the door with a kiss on the mouth and a smack on the ass. Then, like a hobbit, he'd have his second breakfast. More eggs, some bacon, more toast dripping with butter, cheese melted over everything, and on the fifth day of that first week he walked down to the donut shop around the corner, bought a dozen, and ate them sitting on the steps of the back porch, listening to classic rock radio and watching the hot summer wind rustle the trees. He ate all the donuts in a little over an hour. Twelve donuts, methodically, licking sugar and crumbs off his fingers and loving every greasy, borderline-painful bite. Six jelly, a couple powdered sugar, a chocolate-covered, a Boston Cream, and two French cruellers, all sitting like a rock of dough in his heaving stomach. He was panting by the time he was finished, lungs compressed, sweat on his brow, dick hard as a diamond, and he'd had to lean back against the top step and spread his legs and undo the top button of his ever-tightening jeans. The sling kept him from seeing his stomach, but he could feel it, could feel the taut, bloated curve of it, surging every so often with the shock of calories he'd forced into it. Again he succumbed to curiosity and added the calories on his phone, came up with about 3,000 and found himself thinking, well, that's not so much. 

“What are you trying to do, Winchester?” he asked himself. “You trying to get fat?”

He couldn't answer his own question. He wasn't trying to do anything, not really. He just loved the feeling of being so goddamn full, and he loved eating, and he loved the orgasms he had when he was packed so tight he could scarcely breathe, and if that meant adding a couple extra pounds, well, so be it. And if Lisa ever said anything, if she ever made any sign that she'd noticed and disapproved, he'd stop cold turkey and immediately lose whatever weight his gluttony had managed to add on by then. 

She didn't say a thing, however. That whole first week, she'd come home in the evenings and Dean would have hidden the evidence of that day's indulgence, donut box hidden in the stack of cardboard recycling, plastic trays of family-size frozen macaroni and cheese tucked in the bottom of the trash can, the plastic wrap from the blocks of cheddar and the empty bags of chips and the McDonald's bags with the supersize containers still inside – all hidden, all carefully concealed. Dean kissed her hello, his breath fresh from the frantic toothbrushing he'd done after eating a whole medium pepperoni pizza, and when she asked what he was thinking for dinner, he'd say, “Anything, babe. I'm starving.”

He made them lasagna and ate more than half the pan, shaking on tons of parmesan cheese and sopping up the sauce with most of a French baguette and half a stick of butter, and Lisa just kissed his forehead and served him more without him having to ask. He purposefully made way too much blue-cheese steak and buttery mashed potatoes and ate everything he'd prepared, including six dinner rolls with hunks of more blue cheese tucked inside with the butter, and while he leaned back in his chair, the edges of his world going hazy, burping intermittently, Lisa dished them out both a bowl of ice cream, Dean's about three times the size of hers and with a giant brownie wedged in, to boot. 

“I bought it for lunch,” she said, when he nudged it with his spoon and gave her a questioning look. “But my eyes are always bigger than my stomach.”

He loaded a precarious bite and shoved it in, thinking of the box of Oreos he'd demolished already that morning for second breakfast, all broken up into a bowl of milk and eaten with a spoon like cereal. He sucked in a difficult breath of air and burped around the spoon, took his time with the second bite, closing his mouth slowly around the brownie and letting the sweet, cold cream chase it down into his bursting stomach. Beneath the table, the hand dangling from the sling found his jeans button and flicked it up, denim cutting into him uncomfortably even as his belly crept forward to fill the space.

That night, as Lisa rode him, careful of his distantly-throbbing arm, she squeezed a patch of flesh on his hip that Dean had never noticed before, and he came so hard he thought for a moment he'd gone blind, like a man who's seen true grace. 

The sixth day of his broken arm, he was slouched on the couch in front of the television, gnawing on the last of a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken and tugging his zipper down a little lower, rubbing the bloat of his stomach in some discomfort, when suddenly the doorbell rang.

“Shit,” Dean said aloud, brushing crumbs hastily off his sling and shirtfront, wiping his mouth as he stood up and gathered the trash as fast as he could, shoving it into the trash can haphazardly, planning to deal with it later. His stomach gurgled at the sudden pick-up in action, and he realized too late, the door already swinging open, that his pants were still unbuttoned and his shirt riding up just enough that it might be visible. 

For a second he didn't recognize the woman at the door, all tousled blond hair and wicked eyes and cleavage, until she said in her Southern accent, “Hey, Sam said you'd had an accident. Benched for a while, huh?”

“Kendall!” he said. “Hey, c'mon in. I'm fine, really. Just following doc's orders. Sam with you?” He craned his head over her shoulder.

“In class,” Kendall said, still on the porch. “Actually, I can't stay long, but I come bearing pecan pie. Sam helped make it last night. Well, he chopped the nuts, anyway. We're both looking forward to dinner here Friday, if it's still on.”

“Course it is,” Dean said. “Wow, thanks for this. Pecan is one of my favorites.”

“That's what your brother said.” She grinned at him, and he could have sworn he saw her eyes flick to his undone button, then quickly back to his face. 

“You want to come in, have a cup of coffee, start in on this?” Dean said, hefting the pie in his good hand, but Kendall shook her head. 

“I'm on my way to class, myself,” she said. “Just wanted to say get well soon, you know. Suck up to you a little.”

Dean laughed. “You picked the right way to do it,” he said.

“I figured.” She grinned, patted him on the shoulder, and was gone, leaving Dean holding the heavy pie in its glass pan. He took it into the kitchen, set it on the table, and began to work at getting the foil off, a little clumsy with his one hand. His full stomach rumbled its request to sit down, so he grabbed a fork, a carton of vanilla ice cream, and obeyed, sat and stared at the huge, glorious, shining pecan pie, and knew what he was about to do. His heart picked up a little in anticipation just at the thought, and his dick began twitching despite the fact that he'd jerked off not an hour before. 

He'd never eaten a whole pie before. True, circumstances could be better – he was still quite full from the fried chicken, still burping up greasy waves, his stomach pushing against his sling all taut and round like it always was these days, but he couldn't simply turn down the self-imposed challenge. He leaned back a little in his chair, feeling the tightening of denim around his thighs, the uncomfortable dig of his boxers into his waist, the way his jeans were getting tight even with the popped button, and he unzipped his pants fully and pushed his boxers down below the curve of his belly, a curve that he was starting to feel even in the mornings before he'd had a single bite of food. He opened the carton of ice cream, worked out an enormous scoop, plopped it straight down on the pie, and took his first bite.

An hour later, he had to admit defeat. The ice cream was demolished but there was still about a slice and a half left of pie, and he was in serious, actual pain, not just a dull discomfort, and sickly sweet ice cream was rising in his throat and threatening to spill over. His stomach felt huge, his sling resting on it uncomfortably, the skin pulsing in waves of overstretched agony, and he could barely sit up straight. He'd slid down in his chair gradually, and now his legs were splayed, his good hand pressing into his belly in a vain effort to soothe it, the wedge of remaining pie taunting him, smirking. 

With a roiling belch he heaved himself up from the table and made his slow, unsteady way upstairs to him and Lisa's room, where he shucked off his jeans and stretched out on their bed and realized that for once he didn't even have enough energy to jerk off. Carefully he unclasped his splinted arm and eased the sling off his stomach, trying to release some of the pressure, letting out little wet burps that had him wincing and panting. His stomach was a firm mound beneath his t-shirt, and he rubbed circles in the skin, wondering if it was just his imagination, or if he could feel new softness even with the immense tightness of his bloat. Was he gaining weight? He must be. But it was hard to tell, he'd been keeping himself so full all the time, his stomach always pressed outward from the vast quantities of food he'd been stuffing in there. He dug the palm of his hand into the taut roundness below his belly button, trying to catch his breath, and closed his eyes against the afternoon sun that was filtering in through the curtains. He was sleepy and so fucking full, so heavy. It was almost two o'clock, and he'd been eating almost nonstop since he'd woken up. Eggs and toast with Lisa at seven, then four more pieces of toast when she'd gone, half a stick of butter, and the entire package of bacon he'd squirreled away in the crisper. For a snack, several big spoonfuls of Nutella, a couple spoonfuls of peanut butter, five Milanos, a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, and then for lunch five pieces of fried chicken, a quart of mashed potatoes, half a quart of gravy, two biscuits and eight pats of butter, and then the carton of ice cream and that pie. Almost the whole pie, almost, and now he had a new goal for himself. He'd go for apple next time, not as sugary as pecan, not as painfully sweet, and maybe he'd forgo the ice cream, maybe he'd just have whipped cream, or maybe...

Lost in his reveries, he fell asleep. 

He woke to a hand on his stomach. Took him a minute to realize it wasn't his own, and he blinked awake to find Lisa perched beside him on the bed, the light shifted from day to evening, her beautiful dark hair tucked behind her ear and a soft smile on her lips. “Hey, baby,” she said.

“Hey yourself,” he said, grinning foolishly, still so happy to see her even after almost two years. 

“Did Kendall drop off a pie? She texted and said she might.”

“Yeah,” he said, too sleepy to try and lie, and really, who cared if he'd gone to town on a pie? Wouldn't be the first time. “I left you a piece.”

She poked his belly. “I saw that. Did you eat that whole thing this afternoon?”

“Was hungry,” he said, yawning hugely, vaguely aware of a dull thrum of pain in his fractured arm, lying at his side. He settled it back on his stomach, right above Lisa's gently petting hand. 

“You get KFC, too?” she said.

“Huh?” he said, then realized how foolish it was to play dumb, and anyway, Lisa was still smiling that wonderful smile at him, didn't seem mad, or disgusted. “Oh, yeah. I know it's not what you call real food, I just had a craving, you know?”

“Well,” she said, “I picked up DeRazzio's on the way home. You hungry after all that chicken and pie?”

“What'd you get?” he said, pulling himself up to rest against their headboard, groping around for his sling. He felt gassy and still bloated but not nearly so full anymore, and he let out a discreet fart to relieve more pressure, noticing, in a distant way, how his stomach curved ever-so-slightly out in front of him, the waistband of his boxers ever-so-slightly hidden by the little bulge of him. 

“Baked ziti,” she said. “Fettucini alfredo with steak. Stuffed shells, extra mozz just like you like. Cheesy garlic bread. Tiramisu. I wouldn't have gotten so much if I'd known you'd had pie for lunch.”

Technically, he'd had chicken for lunch. “I would never say no to DeRazzio's,” he said.

“I know,” she grinned. “Put some pants on while I warm it up.”

He took his time once she'd left the room, trying to buy just those extra few minutes to work up an appetite, not wanting to let on exactly how much he'd already eaten, although she knew some of it already. He strapped his sling back over his stomach and hiked up his jeans and then took a moment to stand in front of the mirror, staring at the way his stomach bowed out in front of him, the way his waistband dug into him, how his shirt was just a little tighter than he remembered, the seat of his pants pulled just a little more than he'd like. He turned his face this way and that. He was definitely imagining the softening of his jaw, the pad forming beneath his chin. Right? It'd been what, a month of over-eating? Month and a half? How much damage could a person do in a month? He faced forward, saw the bulge of lovehandles sitting over the too-small waist of his pants. Saw the way his arm made a slight indentation in his stomach, his t-shirt riding up under the sling to display the tiny gap between his zipper and his straining jeans button. 

Went downstairs and ate an entire order of steak fettucini alfredo, generous servings of the baked ziti and the stuffed shells, cheesy garlic bread with butter, and most of the tiramisu. He and Lisa ate on the couch with the TV on mute in the background, still reveling in their childless time (although they already missed the kid) and feeling a little naughty doing things they didn't let Ben do, like slump across the cushions with an aluminum tin of takeout and a reality show bright and stupid on the screen. Dean felt sluggish and sleepy despite his nap, and brought the pasta to his mouth with mindless determination, enjoying the smooth slippery creamy salt of it, how he barely had to chew, how it just slid down his throat to join the other 7,000 calories (at least) he'd already pushed in there. His stomach felt impossibly large and round although he knew in fact the bloat was not that noticeable. Noticeable, but not cartoonish as it felt.  
“You want more garlic bread?” Lisa said, and didn't wait for an answer before lifting another grease-dripping chunk of it onto Dean's plate, and who was he to say no? He crunched into it, then paused with a full mouthful to let out a hissy, plaintive belch that he couldn't stifle in time.  
“Full?” Lisa said.  
“Yeah,” he said, back to that familiar breathless fullness, that line between pain and pleasure, and when Lisa lay her small hand on the full push of his belly, his cock began to fill almost immediately.  
“You can really pack it away,” she said. “I think you ate enough for two tonight.”  
“Three,” he said, “once I get my hands on that tiramisu.”  
“You piggy,” she said, and Dean nearly bucked up into her touch. He flushed, ashamed, but also wanting her to notice, wanting her to keep talking about all the fucking food he'd consumed, how his stomach was almost hard to the touch, how he was lightly sweating and breathing shallowly, puffing out tiny farts as his stomach gurgled and tried to figure out what to do with all that food. “I bet there's a thousand calories in that fettucini alone,” said Lisa, and Dean nearly groaned.  
“More, I bet,” said Dean.  
“More,” agreed Lisa, skimming her fingers lightly over his tortured stomach, then pushed herself to stand. “You can have the tiramisu,” she said. “I'll help myself to that pie, if you don't mind.”  
“Be my guest,” said Dean, adjusting his slinged arm, leaning back further into the cushions, and as soon as she'd gone he adjusted his waistband, trying to make room, to get comfortable, but it was a losing battle. “No new pants,” he told himself sternly. “If you need new pants, that's the end of this game.” Then, after a moment of assessing the state of his current pair, “Just one size up. You can go one size up, and that's it.”  
Lisa appeared in the doorway holding a plate of too much tiramisu, and no pie. Dean yanked his hand away from where he'd inadvertently been palming his crotch, but Lisa was grinning. “Wanna try something new?” she said.  
“Always,” said Dean.  
“You eat this,” she said, handing over the heavy plate and a fork, “and I'll blow you.”  
“Fuck,” Dean said. “Fuck, yes.”  
She knelt between his legs and gently pushed his thighs apart, and he hiked himself up as she tugged down his pants and boxers. She stroked a line across his hip where his shorts had left little red marks, and as he took his first huge bite of tiramisu, she put her mouth around him. A moment later she popped off and said, “That's not the last thing you'll be eating tonight, I hope you know.”  
Dean, mouth full, trying to get a deep breath, said, “For you, I'll always save room.”  
“I know you will,” she said, and they both stuffed their mouths full again.

 

The next morning, Lisa didn't work until ten, and she wanted to go out for breakfast.

“Sounds good,” Dean said, shifting in the kitchen chair. He was still bloated from the night before, still gassy, still slightly uncomfortable from a serious day of overdoing it, but, miracle of miracles, he'd woken up starving. 

“Let's go to Luke's,” she said, a greasy spoon that Dean adored but she always complained about, and he raised an eyebrow. “I'm craving their cajun hashbrowns,” she said.

At Luke's they settled next to one another in a back booth and drank coffee while they took their time perusing the menu, Lisa tucked under Dean's arm, Dean's stomach making strange, strained little noises of confusion and hunger. “Savory, or sweet?” he said. “Eggs, or hotcakes?”

“If you get pancakes, I'll have some,” Lisa said. “Or, oooh, stuffed French Toast! We could split it, and you could get eggs, too.”

“That's a lot of food,” Dean said, experimentally.

“Please,” Lisa said, tapping his belly absentmindedly. “With your appetite?”

“Okay,” he said, and kept his eye on Lisa as he told the waitress his order. “Banana cream stuffed French Toast with extra syrup and extra butter, three eggs over-easy, bacon and sausage, toast, and hashbrowns with cheddar cheese and gravy. And a large glass of chocolate milk, please.”

“Garden omelette, thanks,” said Lisa, handing over her menu. The contrast between their orders made Dean grin, blushing a little to think how much he ate compared to this bendy bird of a woman. 

Forty minutes later, Dean was swiping up the last of the maple syrup with the last bite of the French toast, of which Lisa had had exactly three bites before declaring it too sweet for her. He crunched his last rasher of bacon, ate the last of his four sausage links, and drank the last of his second glass of chocolate milk. He was full. But not extremely so, which was amazing, considering the breakfast he'd just pounded down. Actually, he felt better than he had when he'd come in, like the influx of food had settled his stomach rather than overtaxing it. Lisa was rubbing her knuckles along the distended curve beneath his belly button, her head on his shoulder, and he hiccuped a little and dropped a kiss on her forehead.

“You're gonna be late, babe,” he said.

“I'd like to see you try and take my class,” she said. “After eating all that food. Bet you couldn't even bend over right now.”

He didn't answer for a moment, testing her words for sting or bitterness, but he could feel her smiling against his chest, and her fingers kept up the same, soothing pattern. “I probably couldn't,” he said.

“What should I cook for Sam and Kendall tomorrow?” she said, following her own strange logic. “I can't let that Southern belle one-up me. I have to match that feast she gave us!”

“You should roast a chicken,” said Dean. “With a side of, I don't know, green beans or something.”

“Kendall had like six sides,” Lisa said. “I can't just have green beans.”

“I'll make mashed potatoes,” Dean said. “That's kind of my side specialty.”

“Maybe I'll make mac and cheese, too,” said Lisa. “I know we always have it when Sam comes over, but he loves it. Right?”

“Can't get enough of it.”

“And biscuits,” murmured Lisa. “Cheddar rosemary.”

“Now you're talking.”

“Let's get the check,” said Lisa. “You've eaten everything in this place.”

Later in the afternoon, Dean sat at the kitchen table and ate his way through the DeRazzio's leftovers, a box of macaroni and cheese, and a frozen pepperoni pizza, thinking all the while of Lisa walking in on him, whether she'd be shocked or not, whether she maybe had known all along how much he'd been overeating. After lunch he came to the thought of how she'd smile, trace her finger across his stomach, say, “You piggy. Look at how much you've eaten!” 

 

Lisa did make a chicken, and cheddar rosemary biscuits, and macaroni and cheese, and mashed potatoes, and green beans. Plus an appetizer of baked brie and french bread, which she laid out on the coffee table in the living room to nibble on while they sipped their wine, and which Dean planted himself in front of and succeeded in demolishing nearly the whole thing.

“You're gonna ruin your appetite, dude,” Sam said, watching him.

“Not a chance,” said Lisa. “You know, he ate your whole pie by himself, Kendall. All right, all right, he left me one piece. One! See what I put up with?”

“I'm flattered,” said Kendall. “It's an old family recipe, that pie.”

“It was amazing,” Dean said honestly, loading hot cheese onto his tenth round of bread.

Out of respect for company he tried to go easy at dinner, had a couple servings of everything but tried not to overdo it, but later as they sat around the table drinking wine and chatting, nothing put away yet, he found himself falling back on recent habits and kept eating, his fork always partway to his mouth, his plate never completely empty. A little mac and cheese there, another biscuit here, another mound of mashed potatoes, back to the mac and cheese, another piece of perfectly crispy chicken skin, a thumb of butter melted into the green beans and sopped up with another biscuit. Four beers. Five. Six. Everyone else had finished, were focused on their drinks, their conversation, but Dean kept going. He was full, of course, his stomach settling into that familiar bowed-out bloat, his waistband constricting him, his pants stretched across his slightly-splayed thighs, sling rising and falling with his labored breaths, but he kept eating. Another little serving of mac and cheese. A spoonful of butter to round out the flavor. Another biscuit. More butter, scraping the bottom of the dish, the whole stick gone now, between four people, yeah, but Dean knew it was mostly his work. 

He was too full to get up and help Lisa with the dishes, stayed food-coma'd at the table while she and Kendall began bringing things to the kitchen, their bright, giggling voices coming through over the sound of running water and the clank of plates being loaded into the dishwasher.

“Girls in the kitchen, guys out here,” Dean said loudly. “Just like it should be, huh, Sam?”

“I heard that,” called Lisa.

Dean resettled himself on his chair with a small, involuntary, “Oof,” and splayed his hand below where his slinged arm was resting. He badly wanted – needed – to pop his wretched button, but he didn't want to do it in polite company. “Quick,” he told Sam, “pass me that last biscuit before one of them takes it away.”

“We're having dessert, dude,” Sam said. “Lisa said she made chocolate cake.”

“And I intend to eat it,” Dean said, making a grabby hand, and Sam reluctantly handed him the last flaky biscuit. Dean was breathing out of his mouth by the time he was done, swallowing the sticky mass of dough with some difficulty, washing it down with a swig of beer. He was buzzed but not quite drunk. Felt good. Uncomfortable, but good. “Jesus, I'm full, though,” he said.

“Yeah, no wonder,” Sam said. “Think you ate half the table by yourself.”

“Think you're right.”

Then, perfectly blunt: “You're puttin' on weight, man.”

“You think so?” Dean looked down at himself, feeling a crease under his chin that wasn't there until recently. He felt himself flush. It was one thing to imagine it, but quite another to have to discuss it with his brother. “Yeah, I guess you're right.”

“Is it, uh,” Sam stuttered, looking just as uncomfortable as Dean felt, and concerned, too, “is it, like, happy weight? Or --”

“Happy,” Dean said, surprised that Sam might think otherwise. “Jesus, definitely happy. I'm getting soft, I know. I'm just... you know...”

“Happy,” Sam finished, grinning, looking lighter, at peace, and Dean felt a swell of relief. “Nothing wrong with getting a little soft,” Sam said. “You deserve it.”

“Yeah,” Dean said, “we both do. One of us just likes working out. And the other one... likes eating chocolate cake.”

“What's that about chocolate cake?” Kendall said, coming in with the enormous cake on a platter, Lisa close behind her with bowls and spoons and whipped cream and a gallon of ice cream. Kendall set down the cake and paused to squeeze Sam's shoulder as she settled back at her seat, and Sam beamed at her, so obviously in love that Dean's heart swelled to watch them. Lisa cut them each a slice of cake, and Dean couldn't help but notice that his piece was larger by far than the other three. He helped himself to nearly twice as much ice cream as everyone else, covered his plate in whipped cream, and when he was the first one done he leaned forward – careful of his tender stomach – and served himself another piece, as big as the first, and double the amount of ice cream, spooning the glorious melange of flavors into his mouth and trying to ignore the ache in his gut. Then, when Lisa and Kendall killed their second bottle of wine and Sam sipped a beer, Dean loaded up a third bowl of dessert and leaned back in his chair and sank into the sensations of his overstuffed body, the achey itch of his sides, the cut of his waistband, the way his t-shirt was tight across his belly, the way his breath came short and he couldn't close his mouth all the way. He drank his beer, ate his cake and ice cream, and when Sam caught his eye, he winked, and Sam winked back, both of them grinning.

 

Two weeks later, Dean had to call it quits on his pants. They were too hard to get on with just one working hand – he had to wriggle into them painstakingly, and he couldn't hold the flaps together anymore to get the button done up. He'd felt it coming – had felt the ever-tightening of them, had felt the way his ass was starting to press against the seat, how the denim creased uncomfortably right at his thighs, but still it was a surprise when he simply couldn't get the button through the hole. He lay flat on his bed, sucked his stomach in, and still, no cigar. He couldn't, he realized, suck in very well anymore. He was always full, or bloated from being full, and the round convexity of his belly didn't go down anymore – he awoke in the mornings and it was still pushing outward, firm and undeniably present, bowing out over his too-tight boxers. The day he couldn't get the pants fastened, he stood in front of his bathroom mirror shirtless and took note of the way his pecs had softened, and his arms, too, the slight jiggle of under his chin, the padding on his cheeks, his thicker thighs, and his stomach, the most noticeable weight, a discernible elevation beneath his shirts, his navel a visible divot. 

Then he pulled on a pair of sweatpants and went downstairs to make pancakes with Lisa.

They weren't talking about it, how much Dean was eating, but he'd stopped hiding from her quite so much – he still hid some things, like how he went to the pizza place down the street several times a week for lunch and ate a whole medium himself, plus mozzarella sticks, or how a few times he'd gone to DQ and ordered the biggest blizzard they had, 1300 calories of afternoon snack – but he had dropped the pretense of a light breakfast and would now demolish a stack of pancakes, a plateful of bacon and three scrambled eggs with cheese and buttered toast while Lisa had a poached egg on an english muffin, or sometimes one single demure pancake. 

And they'd done the... the eating/blowjob thing... more than a few times. Dean would shovel ice cream down his throat while Lisa sucked him off, and then she'd spread whipped cream on her pussy and straddle his face and he'd lap it off until she came, shuddering and sighing and clenching around him. Then they'd fuck, and cuddle, and Lisa would disappear into the kitchen and come back with a box of chocolates or a bag of gummi bears or a package of cookies, and feed Dean lazily until he fell asleep, his stomach bulging and aching in the best way. 

“A pajama day, huh?” Lisa said, smacking him lightly on the ass of his sweats, and he debated telling her the real reason he was wearing them, but guessed by the glint in her eye that she already knew. As always, he half-wished she'd say something about how he'd eaten himself out of a pair of pants, but she just pushed the butter closer to him and gave him a long, messy kiss as she flounced out the door. 

He meant to get another pair of pants that very day – really, he did – but it was pouring rain, and he ended up sprawled on the couch watching old movies, eating a jar of Nutella and a can of whipped cream. And the next day he clipped a coupon for a buy-one-get-one-free footlong Philly Cheesesteak deal at the local hoagie place, so he ordered in and ate both subs and a huge order of spicy french fries with mayo and half a bottle of ranch dressing, and by the time he'd had an ice cream sandwich and a whoopie pie for dessert, he was too full and sated to venture out to the mall and try on pants, so he just adjusted the stretchy waistband of his pants and sprawled out on the couch, drinking Coke to settle his gurgling belly, rubbing firm circles to try and soothe it, sucking in air and burping as loudly as he wanted, since there was no one there to hear him.

He missed Ben, honestly, and a big part of him was bummed the kid wouldn't be back til school started in mid-September, another three months away – but another part of him was relishing this time alone, these long hours where he did nothing but eat and jerk off and wait for Lisa to walk through that doorway. 

“I'm getting fat without you around to chase after,” Dean said to Ben over the phone.

“You were always fat,” Ben said, so very twelve years-old, and Dean laughed.

Another day went by and Dean still hadn't bought new pants, and when Sam texted him at seven on that Tuesday, We still on for drinks at 8?, he cursed at the dinner table. Lisa looked up from her pasta, said, “What's wrong?” and Dean, already four bowls of heavily-buttered noodles deep, just let out a sigh and shook his head and excused himself upstairs to rifle through his closet, searching.

Only one pair of jeans buttoned, though they were so uncomfortably tight he could barely hike them up. He had to fasten them below the curve of his belly, and was it even more prominent than it'd been a few days ago? He tugged on his favorite red t-shirt and realized, with a pang, that it, too, was getting too small, clinging to the belly that rounded out from beneath his chubbier pecs, outlining his belly button and not doing any kind of job of hiding how ill-fitting his pants were. He pulled on a flannel shirt, experimented with buttoning it but when he had to give it a tug to get it shut around him, he let it fall open, framing the new weight in his stomach but camouflaging the love handles and the pinching tightness of his pants. He patted his belly, somewhat disbelievingly. It must just be the too-tight pants that were emphasizing how round it was, how noticeable. His face was bigger, too, undoubtedly, flesh filling in around his jawline, and he watched himself duck his head in the mirror, the little double chin forming. Yikes. His packed-tight stomach gave a little moan. He burped. 

“Have fun with Sam,” Lisa said downstairs, kissing him goodbye, and as she pulled away she patted him on the belly. It was a loving, affectionate pat, and it turned him on and calmed him down at the same time. As long as Lisa was into it, he didn't care if he'd put on a few pounds. That didn't matter. What mattered was her. 

However, the car ride over was uncomfortable, the jeans button digging into the underside of his belly, and by the time he'd reached the bar he'd figured, fuck it, and undone that top button, tugging his t-shirt down over it to hide it. The sling, as always, made his shirt ride up a little as his arm rode the crest of his belly, but if he kept tugging it down then no one would notice. 

Sam was there already, a pint in front of him, and when he stood for a hug, Dean was conscious of the way his stomach pressed into Sam's flat one. It'd only been a few weeks since they'd last seen one another, but Dean had outgrown his pants in that time, and he felt a twinge of self-consciousness as he lowered himself down across from Sam, feeling his stomach settle over the illicitly undone button.

“You hungry?” Sam said. “I ordered us some appetizers.”

By which he meant loaded potato skins with cheese and bacon and sour cream, chili cheese tater tots, and jalepeño poppers. By his second beer, Dean had eaten most of the apps – not mentioning that he'd already had a substantial dinner – and ordered a basket of chicken fingers and fries. He was in the zone, chugging beer to ease the path of fried food down his stomach, chugging more beer to ease the pain of his too-tight pants, the stretch of his overworked belly as it kept pressing outward. He patted it, burped, sucked air, burped, drank, chewed, leaning further back in the booth, trying to ease the pressure. 

“Dude,” Sam said, “are your pants unbuttoned?”

Dean looked down and lay a hand carefully on his churning stomach, so full, so tight. “Yep. I need new ones but I haven't had a chance to grab 'em. I hate the fucking mall, man.”

“I'll go with you tomorrow, if you want,” Sam offered. “I don't have class til two.”

Dean let out a hefty burp, tugging fruitlessly at the awful constriction of his waistband. “Yeah?” he said. 

“Sure,” Sam said. “I'll pick you up at noon. We can grab lunch.”

 

Sam let himself in a little before noon, and found Dean in the kitchen reading the newspaper and eating chocolate chips. He was wearing his sweats, no use in pretending in front of Sam, and Sam cracked up so hard it was almost worth it to trudge through the mall, dodging teenage girls and haggard-looking moms. Also worth it was the Cinnabon he ordered the minute they walked through the door, extra frosting, and by the time they'd reached a store Sam said had good jeans, Dean was licking frosting off his fingers and thinking about lunch at the food court. 

“What size are you, usually?” Sam said.

“Thirty five? I think?”

“So you're probably, I don't know, a thirty seven now?”

He was, it turned out, a forty-two. He didn't tell Sam. He snuck the jeans into the fitting room, snuck them to the register, and had paid for three pairs by the time Sam had finished looking through a series of metrosexual button-up shirts. 

At the food court, he took advantage of his elastic waistband and ordered a Supersize Big Mac Meal with a ten-piece chicken nuggets and a chocolate milkshake, then got a five-scoop Haagen-Dasz sundae for dessert, which he ate pretty quickly, since Sam had finished his turkey sandwich a while ago. 

“No wonder you need new pants,” Sam said, as Dean sucked the last bite of chocolate sauce from his plastic spoon, and let out a strained sigh. “You can really eat, man.”

“I love eating,” Dean said. He didn't really know what else to say. Certainly wasn't about to tell his brother the truth, which is that not only did he love it, but it turned him on like nothing else. He patted his stomach, rounded and comfortable in the sweatpants, and said, “I can deal with the consequences.”

Sam grinned. “Bet you ten bucks you can't eat another cheeseburger,” he said.

“Bet you twenty I can eat two.”

“I don't want you to explode,” Sam said, but fifteen minutes later he was handing over a twenty dollar bill and Dean was trying to adjust his sling so it rested comfortably over his distended stomach, giving out wheezy burps every so often, longing for a couch and a belly rub from Lisa. 

“At this rate, we'll be back here in a month,” Dean said.

“Wanna bet on it?” Sam said, a wicked glint in his eye.

Dean grinned. “You mean, do I wanna bet I can eat myself into another size in a month?”

“Well,” Sam hesitated. “When you put it like that, it's kind of a fucked up...”

“How much?”

Sam thought for a moment, then said, “Loser has to pay for a personal chef for the winner for six months.”

“Done,” Dean said, and offered his hand.

“Am I an enabler?” Sam wondered out loud, then, “Who'm I kidding, you'd be stuffing your face anyway,” and they shook on it. 

 

“A personal chef?” was Lisa's response when Dean told her, casting it as kind of a joke in case she freaked out. “That'd be a dream come true! You guys are serious about this?”

“I guess so,” Dean said. He was wearing his new jeans, which were, unfortunately, plenty roomy in the waistband. He pulled on them doubtfully, trying to imagine how much weight he'd have to gain to fill them out – how much food he'd have to eat. 

Lisa, as if following his train of thought, ran her fingers between the waistband and his belly. “We'd better start now,” she said. 

“We?” said Dean, twitching his hips a little as her hand sank lower.

“Of course,” she said. “With me as your coach, it's a guaranteed win.”

That night, she ordered a large meat-lover's pizza and watched as he ate every bite, then sat on his lap and fed him breadsticks dipped in melted butter, wiping the oil from his lips every so often, grinding down on his dick when he stopped eating. 

“We want you chewing 24/7,” she said, from between his thighs as he chugged a container of melted chocolate ice cream. “That's the goal.”

He fell asleep with her soft hand rubbing his tender stomach, and woke up at 2am when she brought him a grilled cheese sandwich soaked in butter, which he ate in a daze, sleepy and scattering crumbs. The next morning they went out for breakfast and she kneaded his cock with her bare foot under the table as he ate five chocolate-chip pancakes drowning in butter and syrup, a three-egg omelette with bacon, sausage, sour cream and extra cheese, hashbrowns with cheese and extra gravy, and a bagel with butter and cream cheese. 

No sooner had they gotten back to the house then she handed him a jar of peanut butter and a spoon. 

“Just carry this around with you,” she said. “Keep your mouth occupied.”

They found that Dean managed the peanut butter better if he squirted chocolate sauce into the jar, and Sam came over a few days later to find Dean sprawled out on the couch, scraping the last bite of that day's jar of peanut butter, chocolate on his fingers, his stomach still working to digest the box of donuts he'd had a few hours ago for breakfast. 

“I think Kendall's on your side,” Sam said. “She said she was gonna sabotage me by bringing you brownies.”

Dean laughed, tugging his t-shirt down from where it was bunched beneath his sling, his splinted arm uncomfortably warm across his swollen stomach. He spread his legs a little, leaned back further, trying to get comfortable. “How much do you think I have to gain?” he said. “To go up a size?”

“Well,” Sam said. “How much've you gained already?”

“No idea,” said Dean. “Ten pounds? Fifteen?”

Sam hooted. “You're delusional. Twenty-five at the least.”

“What?” Dean said, putting a self-conscious hand on his belly, but even as he did he felt how round it was, how it sloped out from his chest, how his pecs had begun to crease where they met the upper curve of it, and he thought of how his boxers were all too tight in the ass, in the thighs, how his shirts wouldn't button, how his t-shirts rode up. “Maybe,” he conceded. 

The next day, there was a huge pan of frosted brownies on the kitchen counter, and a note with a heart, signed K.

“Your girlfriend loves me,” he texted Sam, with a picture attached. 

“My girlfriend loves cooking,” Sam texted back. 

“Eat that whole pan by the time I get home,” texted Lisa.

Dean had been eating a lot before – he'd been eating a ton. But now, with Lisa on his case, he was entering a whole new zone. She woke him every night to coax a midnight snack into him, sometimes grilled cheese, sometimes ice cream, sometimes a bowl of creamy soup with a stick of butter melted in it. In the mornings she watched as he cooked himself panfuls of egg and cheese and bacon, a half a loaf of bread with butter, spoonfuls of Nutella like palette cleansers between each course. 

“Send a pic of snickers wrapper,” she'd text an hour later, and he'd eat a snickers and send her the evidence. 

He got sick of peanut butter pretty quickly – 7 jars in as many days will do that to you – and she switched to having him drink a pint of heavy cream a day, which he found a lot more tolerable. Often he'd just add it to his coffee or have a snack of cereal and cream, or mix it into a milkshake with ice cream and cookies. 

They went to a buffet and Lisa brought him plate after plate, all of it heavy, buttered, cheesy, full of carbs, and by the sixth plate Dean was puffing and panting and rubbing the overstretched sides of his stomach in a vain attempt to quiet it down and stop the throb. His favorite red t-shirt had ridden up and exposed a little slice of belly, and Lisa stroked it with one long-nailed finger.

“This belly is going to creep forward,” she said, “until it's sitting right in your lap.”

Dean let out a belch that had the woman at the neighboring table swiveling her head to give him a poisonous glare, but he was too out of it to mind, just hissed another burp and tried to adjust his sling. He could tell he'd gained weight just in the past week because his slinged arm sat higher than it had before, pushed away from his body by the outward growth of his stomach. Too, he could feel it in his shirt sleeves for the first time, a tugging around the shoulders, a pinch in his biceps. 

“God,” Dean groaned, 

“C'mon,” said Lisa. “I'll cut you a break. We won't have dessert here. We'll stop at DQ on the way home.”

By the end of the second week, Dean was thumbing at his waistband when he got behind the seat of the car, and his favorite red t-shirt was too tight around the neck, inching upwards every time he moved, belly peeking out. His belly button was more prominent in shirts, and he'd started to feel his thighs rub together when he walked, and his stomach jiggle every-so-slightly. There were little red stretch marks spidering across his hips and out from his belly button, and Lisa said she found a few on his ass. 

By the end of the third week, he'd graduated from a pint of cream to a quart, and he could feel the beginnings of his double chin wobble as he spoke. When he ducked his head he felt it cushioned in a soft pool of chub, and his slinged arm bounced a little on his belly when he walked. Most importantly, by dinnertime he was thumbing off the button of his jeans and letting his stomach extend out, full and round as he scratched idly at his sides and shifted uncomfortably in his chair, the cold zipper pressing into the dome of his underbelly. 

“Fuck,” Sam said, when he saw him at the beginning of the fourth week. “Dean. You've packed it on.”

Dean was finishing a blenderful of cream-and-peanut butter milkshake with a piece of pumpkin pie and a carton of vanilla ice cream blended into it. It was delicious, and he didn't answer Sam for a moment, intent on sucking up the last dregs of it. He'd had two Belgian waffles at the diner that morning, plus a breakfast cheeseburger with an egg, plus french fries. Plus, of course, about sixteen pats of those little foil-wrapped butters. His stomach was, always, full to the brim, pushing painfully outwards, his t-shirt riding up an inch or two, too-tight, love handles sloping gently over the edges of his waistband, thighs constricted where they spread across the kitchen chair. He leaned back, squirmed, trying to give his belly more room.

“I'm winning,” he said. “These pants are fucking uncomfortable, dude.”

“Yeah,” Sam said. “But you can still button them.”

“I've got a week left,” said Dean, and Sam grimaced.

Turned out, Lisa had a last-stretch game plan. The next day, Dean ate a large meat lover's pizza for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, with snacks of heavy cream and bowls of melted cheese, the pizza crusts dipped in hunks of softened butter and cream cheese. The day after that, he ate two double cheeseburgers and cheesy fries for every meal, with a pint of ice cream mixed with cream in between each one, plus a midnight snack of a full cherry pie. The day after that, he ate a cheesecake for breakfast, followed by a dozen donuts, followed by three family-size boxes of macaroni and cheese with a block of cheddar and a stick of butter, followed by another cheesecake, followed by a package of oreos blended with cream and a gallon of ice cream. After that, he ate four large pizzas through the course of a day, plus a cheesecake, and the cream, of course. Etc. 

He woke every morning with his stomach churning, gassy and bloated and feeling huge. His ass spread when he sat down, and he couldn't get his hands in his back pockets anymore. His waist had formed a crease at the apex his love handles and the roll went all the way around his back, while his pecs had plumped up until they rested on top of his stomach, which had inched forward into his lap and covered the waistband of his boxers. He had to spread his legs now when he leaned forward to tie his shoes, letting his stomach slot gentle into the extra space, and he'd gotten into the habit of sitting all the way leaned back, legs spread, his good hand tucked beneath his stomach, trying to support it as it gurgled its way through thousands and thousands of calories. He'd had to adjust his foam-and-plastic splint several times to account for the way his arm was chunking up, and when he sat down, his bad arm now rested on his belly. 

In fact, he found he could legitimately put things on his stomach now – bowls of ice cream, the remote. None of his shirts were fitting right, and he stopped trying to tug them down, just let them ride up his round stomach, which Lisa discovered she loved to grind into, damp through her panties as she pressed peanut butter cups into Dean's mouth. 

When the final moment came, Dean had already been wearing sweatpants for three days. Sam arrived grim-faced and prepared, Kendall already laughing even before Dean showed them how his new jeans wouldn't close, gaping almost half an inch around the fat swell of his stretch-marked stomach.

“I lost,” Sam said. “Fair and square. But we've got a proposition for you. How about, instead of hiring a cook you don't know, Kendall cooks for you?”

“I've been dying to get into the personal chef business,” Kendall said. “This will be perfect for my resume!”

“Aha!” Dean said. “That's why you wanted me to win!”

Kendall grinned, shrugging. “It'd be a great opportunity,” she said. “And Sam has agreed to pay me in lieu of a professional cook. He gets a discount, of course.”

“I am one hundred percent in favor of that idea,” Lisa declared. She finished passing around bottles of beer, then patted Dean's belly, still surged over the unbuttoned pants and barely covered by his t-shirt, then snuck a hand around and slotted her fingers briefly into the crease of his back fat. “But you've gotta feed this guy in the manner to which he's accustomed. Not to mention a hungry twelve year-old.”

“Oh, I am well aware,” Kendall said. “And I'm more than prepared!”

“I bet you are,” Dean said, sinking down into a kitchen chair now that the test was over. He adjusted his slinged arm, then leaned back in the chair, feeling all the places where his body was newly creased, newly rolled: a faint roll beginning at his neck, a roll under his chin, the one on his back and waist, the one beneath his pecks, the one where his ass and thighs touched, the sag of his belly over his unbuttoned pants. He wasn't fat fat, not really, not yet... but, “I weighed myself yesterday at Lisa's yoga studio.”

“Yeah?” Sam said, sipping his beer and looking intrigued. 

“I've gained fifty pounds,” he said. 

“Holy shit,” Sam said.

“Here's to fifty more,” Lisa said, raising her bottle, then giggled. “Just kidding?”

“With Kendall cooking for you, I wouldn't doubt it,” Sam said.

Dean looked around at the people he loved most and felt the weight of his belly pushing him into the chair, into the world, into this wonderful life he'd somehow stumbled into. He had never been happier. And he'd never been bigger. Somehow, he knew the two were linked in his mind, and as he looked down at the swell of his stomach, felt his thighs touching even as he spread his legs, felt the way his ass was crammed into his too-small jeans, he knew that this was just the beginning – of his happiness, and of his growth, in all ways.

“To more,” he said, and they all clinked glasses.


End file.
